


Locus's World-Famous Garbage Taste In Men

by hylian_reptile



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: FAKE RELATIONSHIP BECAUSE IM A ONE TRICK PONY, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-03-25 10:17:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13832103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hylian_reptile/pseuds/hylian_reptile
Summary: Within two hours, everyone in the base thinks Grif and Locus are fucking.





	1. Locus Has Had Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prim_the_Amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/gifts).



> a million years ago, i promised prim i'd write porn for her. and then it turned out i was basically incapable of making locus porn, and instead wound up with like, 50k words of locus AVOIDING porn.
> 
> this is the result.

The way that Locus came to be in Red Base seemed, at the time, incredibly logical: it’d just seemed like Locus kept running into the Reds and Blues—not intentionally, he swore it was nothing intentional, the Reds and Blues just seemed to attract trouble that way. And over time, he'd realized that A’rynasea was burnt out from hyperspeeding across the galaxy every other day in pursuit of whatever criminal tail he could unearth, and Lopez, as if sensing Locus's mishandling of his ship, sent him an angry email insulting him and his abuelita and his criminal treatment of his ship, demanding that Locus either bring it in for repair and to visit Grif's "lonely carcass" or never show his ugly mug to Lopez’s visual processors again.

So when Lopez demanded that Locus stay planetside until the ship was fixed, and when Lopez went and got himself decapitated again, the Reds and Blues saw, apparently, nothing wrong with accepting a murderer into their home until Lopez could be repaired.

“You saved Wash and all," Tucker tells Locus. "Just stick to the Base rules and we’re chill, and even the Base rules are chill."

Locus is already prepared to stay as far out of the simtroopers’ way as he can. He’ll sustain himself on minimal contact with Lopez and whatever food rations he still has in the glovebox. He is prepared to accept whatever rules they’ve got set up, because he doubts he’ll be in contact with them long enough to ever need to abide by them.

What comes out of Tucker’s mouth is: “Rule number one of hanging out with us simtroopers is that Grif and Simmons are not fucking, and everyone is very, very irritated by this.”

Tucker’s first statement should have told Locus exactly how fast he should have gotten off-planet, Lopez or no Lopez. But he, like the stubborn fool that he is, thought he could survive.

“This doesn’t seem like anyone’s business but theirs,” Locus says, in a carefully neutral voice.

Donut makes a doubtful noise. “Yeah, but, see, when you live in the same space as them, and when you go to all the same events as them, and eat all your meals with them, and sometimes when you sleep next door to them…”

“The _sexual tension_ ,” says Tucker. “Like, _fuck_.”

“Or the _lack_ of fucking, to be precise!” Donut chirps.

“Been going on for years,” says Tucker.

“Probably ever since Basic,” says Donut. “Or maybe the time they got drunk-married in the Vegas Quadrant?”

“They’re _married_?” Locus echoes.

“Probably!” Donut says.

“Don’t get my hopes up with shit about them being married, Donut, damn,” says Tucker.

 _What the fuck_ says a tiny voice in Locus’s brain.

“If anyone could ignore their own marriage certificate, it’d be them,” says Donut morosely.

“See?” says Tucker, gesturing to Locus’s face, which is wearing an expression Locus is unsure of because he’s never really felt this level of disbelief before. “Being really salty that Grif and Simmons aren’t fucking is _not_ a hard rule to follow. Wash lasted like, a week before he chucked a TV remote at their door. Carolina would have killed them within a day if she hadn’t been too wrapped up in her shit to know what was happening in anyone else’s life.”

“ _I HEARD THAT_ ,” comes Carolina’s voice from the next room, followed immediately by a series of Washington’s shoosh-papping noises.

“That’s why it’s the General Simtroopers Rule, instead of a team-specific rule,” says Donut, “like the list of Blue Team rules.”

Locus is ninety-nine percent sure this is nonsense, but the one percent just won’t die. “And what are the Blue Team rules?”

“Rule number one of being on Blue Team is that you have to go to morning training with Wash or he’ll be sad,” says Tucker. “But I guess considering _your_ track record on Chorus, seeing more of Wash sweaty in gym shorts would be fine with y—”

“I’ll stay at Red Base,” says Locus quickly.

 

* * *

 

“First rule of being on Red Team,” says Sarge—

“I’m not joining your team,” says Locus. “I’m here until you repair your robot, who then repairs my ship.”

“—is that you listen to me no matter what I say! Absolute rank and file! Supreme military might! Complete adoration for myself and my military prowess—”

“First rule of being on Red Team,” Grif interrupts, “is your drama is petty and stupid, your plans and ideas are big and stupid, and everything you say and do is inconsequential, mundane, and stupid.”

“That’s like, five rules,” says Simmons. “Why’s Grif making the rules, now? Isn’t that a violation of rule 3, subsection 7, particle E through G?”

Grif points at Simmons. “A prime example,” says Grif.

“Shut up,” says Simmons, and tries to look irritated and not immensely pleased with Grif’s good-natured teasing. Grif, on the other hand, nudges Simmons with an elbow and leans back and tries to cover his own sappy smile.

Sarge grunts and sighs. Donut gives Locus a knowing look from under his glitter mascara and rolls his eyes.

Locus feels Simtrooper Rule Number One punch him straight in the gut.

 

* * *

 

He wasn’t prepared.

He hadn’t known.

This level of denial of sexual tension shouldn’t be _physically possible_.

* * *

 

In the following weeks, Locus regrets every moment he’s ever spent thinking that Simtrooper Rule Number One was a joke, because it’s real. Grif and Simmons are, in Tucker’s words, _not fucking_ , and it _is_ irritating, and painful, and makes Locus feel twenty kinds of sexually-repressed just by association, and because Locus can’t bring himself to go to Blue Base, it’s in his face every single _day_.

Especially since “in Locus’s face” is where Grif lately prefers to reside.

“—and I was _super_ worried that we’d never see each other again!” says Grif. “You’re always doing that thing where you’re, staring directly into the camera and giving this incredible impression of being like ‘you’re never going to see me again because fuck you’ and I’m like, NO, C’MON, who else am I supposed to talk to like this—”

“Good to see you too,” says Locus.

“But you’ve only just got back! We have so much to catch up on! Oh, oh, I have _huge_ news, because yesterday Simmons wore _mismatched socks_ for like the first time I’d ever seen in maybe sixteen years and it was the _best_ ? One was maroon and the other one was pink and I wasn’t even jealous that pink is Donut’s color because did I say jealous? That’d be weird, why would I be jealous? Anyway he’s always so snickety about being really neat all the time, it was such an out of body experience to see him with mismatched socks like he’d woken up groggy and forgot to care about the color of his socks, especially since usually when he’s groggy in the morning he’s too tired to get snippy and it’s really nice? Honestly when it comes to him being chill about his wardrobe, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in sweats _ever_ , which is really such a shame—”

“I've been well, thank you,” says Locus.

“—because if you ask me, sweats are really hot in the sense that when you see someone wearing sweats you can _feel_ how relaxed they’re being, you know? You know that hey, this person is being _good_ to themselves, treating themselves _right_ by having a day of relaxation. And if anyone needs to be more relaxed, it’s Simmons! And when I said that sweats are hot I mean temperature hot, right, you know what I mean, has nothing to do with the fact that Simmons has these really really long legs—”

Locus eventually slinks away to find Lopez, where they can gossip safely behind the protection of their personal language barrier.

 

* * *

 

Locus finds Lopez in the clutches of Private Richard Simmons himself. 

“And sometimes he’ll say things and I don’t know what they mean?” Simmons says to Lopez’s disembodied head, puttering a bowl of grains and various almond milks around the kitchen. “Like one time Grif was like, hey Simmons do you wanna go out, and I was like do I _what_ ? And he was like obviously I meant go out to the beach, I think Sarge is having a cook-off with Carolina on the grill, and I’m like. Yes, right, obviously, of course that’s what you meant! But Lopez, I just—is it just me? Am I losing my mind? C’mon, Lopez, I know you probably have some secret Hispanic wisdom locked up in there. What does he _mean_ when he says ‘let’s go out’? Is it a _code_? Pig latin? Oh, christ, do I have to learn Spanish? Is that it? Is he speaking Spanish and ‘let’s go out’ is just a bunch of Spanish words that mean something entirely different in English—”

“Ayuadame _(_ _Help me)_ ,” says Lopez.

Simmons turns around to put the almond milk in the fridge. Locus snatches Lopez’s head from the kitchen table and books it.

 

* * *

 

Locus returns to the hallway. Grif is there. 

“Locus so the other day I asked Simmons to go out with me but I didn’t mean it in a gay way but the way he looked at me was—”

“Mierda ( _Shit_ ),” says Lopez. “¡Retirada! ( _Retreat!_ )”

 

* * *

 

Locus can run, but he can’t hide. Red Base is only so big. Grif and Simmons are everywhere, and they _never_ stop: round and round and round each other, like planets in orbit, locked in permanent rotation and never to collide.

“Si la Base Roja es tan mala, ve a Base Azul ( _If Red Base is so bad, go to Blue Base_ ),” Lopez says sourly. “Tienes piernas, ¿verdad? ( _You’ve got legs, don’t you?_ )”

Locus thinks about Private Tucker saying _You have to go to morning training with Wash or he’ll be sad._ “I can’t,” says Locus.

“Eres tan patético como el resto de nosotros ( _You’re as pathetic as the rest of us_ ),” says Lopez.

Locus looks at him.

“Oh Dios, por favor no me mates ( _Oh god please don’t kill me_ ),” says Lopez.

Locus leaves him be and returns to brooding, dreading the moment he walks around another corner and inevitably runs into Grif. This is it, Locus thinks. In all of Locus’s years of waltzing around with Felix and aspiring to become a walking assault rifle, he’s finally found the true descent into madness.

Why. Aren’t. They. _Fucking_.

 

* * *

 

By the time Locus reaches the end of the first week, Washington personally congratulates him on not having killed either Grif or Simmons. He offers it in his level, neutral voice, the one without ego, the sort of voice Locus had once mistaken for emotionless. It’s very soothing, which is what makes it so awful.

“Not, um, sarcastically,” Washington is saying. “I know that watching those two can be, er…”

Locus is convinced that the less words he speaks in Washington’s presence, the less of a fool of himself he’ll make. He grumbles in lieu the many, many uncharitable word suggestions he could offer.

Washington, like he’d heard them all, finishes with amusement: “I know it can be an experience.”

Locus glares at his own tea mug like it’s been gaslighting him over his PTSD for the better part of a decade, or maybe was responsible for getting Locus in a cramped kitchen with Agent Washington for more than three seconds. They feel comparable, at the moment.

“Okay, _that’s_ a thinking face,” says Washington. “...Probably.”

Locus stands up and leaves.

 

* * *

 

Not because he’s avoiding Washington, that time. He gets up and leaves because he's decided: he’s going to put an end to this nonsense between Grif and Simmons.

He's  _not_ avoiding Washington. He  _isn't_.

 

* * *

 

The next time Locus sees Grif, Grif is bouncing a volleyball on his knees. The sight of it is a relief: the tangible reminder that Locus did, once, have an extended conversation with Grif on A’rynasea will make this conversation easier.

“Grif,” Locus says.

“Huh?” says Grif, and looks up. “Oh, hey, Locus! Hey! What a surprise, fancy meeting you here, what’s up—”

“You need to stop talking,” Locus says, very clearly, “and make out with Simmons.”

Oh, christ, Locus thinks to himself, the instant he says it. This is why Felix was the people person.

“What,” says Grif.

“Do it,” says Locus, because maybe he can fix it if he just... keeps going?

“W-w-wait a minute,” Grif stammers, “that’s not—”

“Yes, it is,” says Locus.

“What makes you think I’d even want to—”

“Everything,” says Locus.

“But I’ve never even thought of—”

“You have,” says Locus.

“Don’t do that!” Grif cries. “It’s scary when you read my mind!”

“I’m _not_ ,” says Locus. “You’re broadcasting your crush on Private Simmons from your _pores_.”

“Uh, ew, dude,” says Grif. “Also, no, I don’t have a crush, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and nobody calls it a crush because we’re not middle school girls.”

“You’re broadcasting your fervent and palpable ongoing unconsummated but not unrequited love affai—”

“THIS IS WORSE,” Grif says.

“What would you call it?” Locus says, with an affronted huff.

“NOT. THAT,” says Grif. “Nobody uses words like ‘unconsummated’ and ‘not unrequited’—which, by the way, it totally isn’t—”

“I’m _highly_ doubtful that you two have consummated anything.”

“I meant the _requited_ part!” Grif interrupts.

Locus’s eyebrows shoot upwards.

“What,” says Grif.

Locus’s eyebrows remain exactly where they are.

“ _What_ ,” says Grif.

“You think,” Locus says, “he doesn’t feel the same way.”

Grif’s face begins to twitch. “I—no, I—I don’t think anything, because I don’t _have_ a—a—a crush, I…”

Locus waits.

“I don’t…” Grif tries again, just before his face crumples.

Locus waits.

Grif, too, says nothing for a long moment, before he looks over his shoulder—nobody there, of course—and points a finger up at Locus’s face. “You take this to your grave,” he says.

He means it, Locus knows. Not, of course, that Grif has any means of enforcing this threat, and the threat is especially amusing considering Locus’s six-foot-four versus Grif’s five-foot-five frame, but Locus appreciates the earnestness. Likes it, even, if Locus were in the habit of using such sentimental phrases.

“Swear it,” Grif says.

“Everyone knows, Grif,” Locus says.

“Swear it anyway!”

“I swear,” says Locus, because this is just one of those things that would soothe a soul to hear.

Grif relaxes, just a bit. Does another glance around and ducks his head. “Okay, yeah,” he says, lowly. “Fine. I’ve got a… a crush. Or whatever you call it. But it’s not gonna go anywhere, because Simmons is obviously straight as an arrow, so it’s not the kind of thing you hope for. Okay? Now let’s just leave it alone and forget this conversation ever happened.”

The idea that Simmons is straight is so laughable that Locus almost does laugh, but Locus also knows that the instant Grif realizes Locus has a sense of humor, he’ll never let it go. Locus, instead, crosses his arms. “Giving up before you try is bad form.”

“Yeah, well, that’s me,” says Grif, “the king of bad form.”

“I don’t understand,” Locus begins, “how you can’t see that Simmons is just as interested—”

“I don’t know _what_ I see! Okay?!” Grif hisses. Locus, vaguely, acknowledges that the rapid change in personality and aggression would be alarming, if he’d known Grif better and for longer and wasn’t so entirely unthreatened by a single one of the simtroopers. “I know I’m fucking—I’m fucking balls off the walls in love with the shithead! The runty nerdy kiss-ass! Alright?! So _I_ know, because I can be real with myself, that any signals I think I see from Simmons are just be wishful thinking. I’m not gonna let myself play myself. It’d just be sad, and depressing, and awkward for everyone. I’m not gonna do that to us when we’ve got a good thing going.”

This is the sort of distrust in one’s own reality that gets everyone in trouble, Locus thinks—or or perhaps this is the ugly related cousin, which is the absolute conviction that reality is always the worst and most hopeless version of itself because of a fear of vulnerability. The sort of distrust that breeds wild insecurity, in both hope and in oneself. He’s acquainted with it.

But because he knows it, he also knows this is the sort of distrust that can only be disproved with the firmest of evidences. Uncertainty must be eliminated beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“What,” says Grif, nervously, when Locus’s silence stretches into long, awkward staring.

“I’m going to go ask Private Simmons what he thinks,” says Locus, and turns to leave.

“NO THE FUCK YOU ARE NOT,” Grif snaps.

“What would you like to do, then?” Locus demands. “Sit here in stalemate for another fifteen years?”

“Yes! Absolutely! It’s worked wonders for us so far!”

They must have very different definitions of “worked wonders,” then. Locus says instead: “Even though I, and several of your peers, can attest to the fact that there is a _significant_ chance that your feelings are not unrequited?”

Grif hesitates.

Locus waits.

“I don’t believe you,” Grif says quietly.

Of course he doesn’t. Locus sighs and laces his fingers together and closes his eyes.

“Don’t make that face,” says Grif. “How do you think _I_ feel? Like, I’d… I’d be up for it, I’d be…”

Another hesitation.

Grif’s voice is barely audible: “I’d jump at a chance to take the plunge,” Grif mumbles. “But without proof that it won’t just fuck everything up? No way. Absolutely no damn way, dude.”

Locus, without sound, sighs.

Locus is no stranger to this: the waiting game, the paralysis, the desperate determination to survive a seemingly-intolerable situation. Can’t fight, can’t go forward, can’t go back; can only hold, suspended, for as long as you can stand. Stasis is the worst sort of death. At least in the coffin, you can change to earth and ash in peace. Fear and paralysis were Locus’s company for nearly a decade, and made Felix, of all people, preferable.

What Locus means is that he sympathizes, in the most abstract sense, with the crumpled-up, exhausted despair in the corners of Grif's eyes.

And in the interest of learning from his past mistakes and relieving others of potentially making the same, what he _does_ is, with the least amount of hesitation he can manage, put a hand on Grif’s back: the first kind, voluntary physical touch he’d done since… since Felix still went by Gates? It hits him like a shock. The solid skin beneath Grif’s T-shirt is poisonously warm against Locus’s dry palm.

Touch without intent to kill still feels wrong, but one of his first mistakes had been thinking that that meant he should learn to tolerate Felix's fingers.

“Aw, shit, dude,” says Grif, looking down, and sighs. Locus can feel breath inside Grif’s body. “Thanks.”

Locus doesn’t even know how to begin to respond. There’s only so many words in the English language, and no sentence could start with untangling the entirety of how ineffective a touch and a thank you could be to the uselessness of Locus, who’s wrecked hundreds of thousands of lives, expressing a kind sentiment to a singular person, let alone the uselessness of wishing Locus could stop thoroughly liking having nonsensical, irreversible, endless, impossible missions hanging over his head.

So he doesn’t say anything. He stands there, doing nothing at all, feeling Grif pull himself together under Locus’s hand. The gesture might be worth something to Grif, at the very least. And that’s not all bad.

 

* * *

 

Within two hours, everyone in the base thinks Grif and Locus are fucking.


	2. Local MILF Receives A Tiny Shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And that’s why everyone thinks that you were rawing Grif on the dinner table."

According to Lopez:

Sarge had been looking for Locus (“What for?” Locus asked, which Lopez didn’t know), saw Grif and Locus talking in the kitchen, decided he could read a room (for the first time in his whole life), and left; Caboose was looking for _Grif_ , found Sarge, asked Sarge, Sarge said it was private; Caboose bumped into Carolina, told Carolina that “Grif and Locus are doing privates”; Carolina immediately tracked down Simmons because obviously Simmons knows where Grif is at all times and could therefore explain what the hell Caboose meant by “doing privates,” only to find that Simmons had no idea where Grif was and has no idea what “doing privates” could possibly mean except for the obvious innuendo; Carolina then tracked down Washington, where they proceeded to have a long and serious Freelancer conversation about Locus and their decision to have let Locus hang around until his ship was repaired; meanwhile, Simmons ran into Kai, who’d proceeded to wax poetic about the physically-impossible number of abs that Locus must have (“I only have eight!” Locus protests); Kai attempted to corroborate Locus’s ab quantity with Tucker, who’d heard from Caboose that there was a “privates” going on in the kitchen; Tucker and Kai took it upon themselves to discover who’d been fucking in the kitchen, to Simmons’s sputtering horror; meanwhile, Carolina and Washington break from their Freelancer Meeting having reached the conclusion that they were glad that Grif has a friend, only to run into Kai, Tucker, and Simmons on the scent of scandalous public sex; Carolina and Washington said that they were looking for Grif and Locus, who they’d heard were in the kitchen; Kai and Tucker put two and two together and immediately made a beeline for the kitchen to see Grif and Locus doing the do; thankfully, by this time, Grif and Locus had vacated the premises and the only occupant of the kitchen was Donut and Sarge himself, who’d seen the original event in the first place; Kai and Tucker grilled Sarge about who’d been fucking in the kitchen and if it’d really happened; to which Sarge was floored to hear that moments after he’d seen Grif and Locus’s “private” talk involving a singular chaste hand-touch to the back, they’d gone on a wild sex rampage across the entire room. Kai and Tucker were delighted. Then Carolina, Washington, Kai, Tucker, Sarge, Donut, and Simmons all collectively realized that this meant that Grif and Locus fucking in the kitchen meant that Grif and _Simmons_ weren’t fucking—

“ _—and that’s why everyone thinks that you were rawing Grif on the dinner table_ ,” says Lopez.

Locus is even more displeased to hear that he supposedly topped. _Just_ because he’s big and tall, _everyone_ assumes.

“I don’t understand why the Sergeant didn’t correct them,” says Locus. “He saw the act. We were barely touching.”

“ _If I had shoulders, I would shrug_ ,” says Lopez. “ _Sarge is crazy, except when it’s completely inconvenient to you. Then he’s a genius._ ”

“That doesn’t check out,” says Locus. “There has to be a method to the madness. Reverse psychology? Sandbagging? Obstinance?”

“ _Sarge is exemplar of the laws of this moon, by which I mean there are no laws here_ ,” says Lopez. “ _Only comedic timing rules supreme._ ”

The base roof door slams open. Carolina, in full body armor and helmet, cracks her knuckles.

“I CALL THE FINISHING BLOW,” Tucker’s voice hollers.

“Hello, Locus,” says Carolina, her voice dangerously sweet. “I’ve heard you’re back to destroying lives, spreading misery, wrecking homes, and asking for an ass-kicking.”

“I can explain,” says Locus.

“Really?” says Carolina. “So you _didn’t_ break Simmons’s heart, beat him up in a dark alley, and steal his boyfriend right out from under him?”

Locus hesitates. He could explain. He has the full story from Lopez. He could have Lopez as a corroborator. He could tell Sarge that what he’d seen was true, and that no, they didn’t mysteriously have riotous sex all over the kitchen as soon as he left. He opens his mouth to explain.

“Simmons’s business is his own business,” is what comes out of his mouth instead.

“I’m going to enjoy killing you,” says Carolina.

Locus throws Lopez’s head at her face (“ _Cabrón_!” Lopez shrieks) and flees to Grif’s room during the distraction.

 

* * *

 

Grif doesn’t even get up from his bed, just continues chewing through his package of pastries, leaving Locus sulking and pacing in the middle of Grif’s bedroom. Grif is not helpful. In fact, Grif thinks it’s _hilarious._

“Seriously, dude?” says Grif. “You’re acting like it’s a code red event. Just clear it up with someone. Someone’s bound to ask eventually.”

“They did,” says Locus.

“Really? Who?”

“Carolina.”

Grif waves a hand. “Oh, in that case, we’re all good, right? Figures she’d be on top of it.”

Locus closes his eyes.

“What,” asks Grif.

“When she asked,” says Locus. “There was.”

Grif waits.

“...A miscommunication,” says Locus.

“What does that mean,” says Grif.

Locus says nothing.

“Locus,” says Grif.

Locus says nothing.

“What did you do,” says Grif.

 

* * *

 

Locus, usually, knows that anything that comes out of his mouth probably won’t live up to what it is that he’s trying to say or do. So usually he just stands there with his giant fuck-off muscles until other people leave him alone.

It’s an effective strategy every other moment of his life.

His muscles are _very_ big.

 

* * *

 

Instead of verbally raking Locus over the coals for his mistake like Locus expected him to, Grif just says, “Okay, it’s fine, it’s just a mistake. Let’s just leave it alone and let everyone forget.”

Typical. The Reds and Blues do that, and often. They just... let things go.

(Locus hates it.)

Someone bangs on Grif’s door. “Hey, Dex!” Kai’s voice hollers. “Are you and Locus fucking in there?!”

“You can’t just _ask_ if they’re fucking!” Donut’s voice cries. “You have to be more subtle!”

“Oh, sorry,” says Kai, and tries again: “Hey, Dex! Are you getting dick-downed by a large hot Latino in there?!”

“ _Kai_!” Donut exclaims.

“Lay off, Muffin-man, I need to know if I have to take the MILF off my to-do list!”

“He’s a dude, so he’s a DILF,” says Donut.

“Not if MILF stands for ‘murderer I’d like to fuck’,” says Kai's voice.

“Uhhhhhh," says Grif, uneasily. "I’m sure it’ll go away eventually?"

 

* * *

 

When Tucker sees Locus next, Washington has to physically hold Tucker back.

“WE TRUSTED YOU,” Tucker wails.

Locus says, “I—”

“HOW COULD YOU? I THOUGHT YOU UNDERSTOOD! I SAW THE PAIN IN YOUR EYES WHEN THEY FLIRTED!”

Locus says, “H—”

“ _Give it up,_ ” Lopez advises him.

“Tucker,” says Wash.

“I THOUGHT YOU SHIPPED IT TOO!”

Locus says, “Y—”

“Tucker, please,” says Wash.

“I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN YOU’D BETRAY US!”

“ _Ah yes,_ ” says Lopez. “ _You should have known that the man who killed a planet and murdered his partner might, potentially, have had the capacity to backstab y—_ ”

“RED TEAM HAS NO RESPECT FOR TRUE LOVE!”

Lopez groans.

“SIXTEEN YEARS OF FOREPLAY! SIX-FUCKING-TEEN FUCKING _YEARS_!”

“Tucker, seriously,” says Washington. “It’s just hearsay. Let the man talk.”

“WHY SHOULD I TRUST ANY OF THE LIES FROM THAT HOMEWRECKING _HUSSY’S_ MOUTH?!”

“Because I consider myself to have an IQ above two and a half, and therefore don’t trust anything that comes out of the simtrooper rumor mill,” says Washington. “Let’s sit down, calm down—yes, I’m talking to _you too_ , Tucker—and clear up what actually happened. It’s not hard.”

Were Felix here, they could debrief this moment afterwards. Washington’s dispassionate, brutally neutral voice, the body language bending towards empathy; a clear reasoning presented at the outset, followed by an easy plan of action, finished with a stern expectation. He’s clearly had experience dealing with prickly men, large egos and rigid, brittle notions of self that would never accept a kind word without a disguise or a new idea without being convinced it was their own. And, most importantly, Washington maintains the hard and expecting edge of a military demand that Locus has always understood best.

Felix would think that Washington’s maneuver artfully done: the perfect blend of requirements to convince a man like Locus, who would be suspicious or anything too kind, to sincerely lay down just enough arms to be believable to everyone around. Locus is almost never impressed by engineered social tricks. What impresses Locus is that Wash does all this, and genuinely means it.

And then Washington looks at Locus, who is beginning to realize that Washington has invited him to sit down at a couch with himself and Tucker for an extended period of time to _talk_ , and asks, “Well?”

Locus walks out.

“ADMISSION OF GUILT!” Tucker cries. “WASH LET GO HE’S GETTING AWAY COME ON WASH PLEASE!”

 

* * *

 

The next day, Caboose brings Locus a very, very tiny shirt.

“This is yours,” says Caboose cheerily.

Locus looks down at the shirt. It _is_ his—it just also looks like it could fit a twelve-year-old. “Why is it tiny,” he says.

“I have no idea!” says Caboose. “But I saw you wearing it last week, so it must be yours. Maybe it’s a magic shirt that gets bigger when you put it on?”

“Where did you find this,” Locus says.

“In the dryer, of course. That’s where all the clothes are baked.”

Locus knows this shirt. It’s a cotton shirt that he’d picked up from a ritzy department store to blend in on the street two jobs ago; it’d wound up being plain and comfortable enough that he kept it. Of course ritzy, fifty-dollar t-shirts wouldn’t be pre-shrunk. It’s never been a problem because Locus hang-dries his clothes out of habit and he’s never put his clothes in the communal base laundry.

Locus knows how to be a good houseguest: clean, quiet, and rarely seen. Like he does in a temporary safehouse, he does not like to leave his personal possessions around the base. He’s not moving in. He’s not relaxing. He’s definitely not joining Red Team, like Sarge is convinced he is. He has things to do once his ship is repaired, which is the only thing that makes this base bearable, because he is keenly aware that he doesn’t belong in it.

“Who was on laundry duty,” he asks.

“Ummmm,” says Caboose. “Simon?”

 

* * *

 

Grif is abruptly nowhere to be found. Simmons abruptly decides that he needs to spend every waking moment in Grif’s presence. Locus abruptly realizes how little he interacted with any of the Reds and Blues who _weren’t_ Grif. Every time he expects Grif to be in his face with a new fifteen-minute rant about Simmons’s socks, Simmons is either at the beach with Grif, or on the roof, or watching a movie, or making dinner, or...

 

* * *

 

The base chore wheel is revised. Locus is put in charge of making dinner on Tuesdays, and now has to actually be present at dinners 

He’s also put in charge of washing dishes on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

“Who’s in charge of the chore wheel,” Locus says.

“Simmons, of course!” Sarge says, like Locus should know.

 

* * *

 

Locus hates team dinners. Everyone expects him to sit next to Grif. Locus lurks in his seat and tries to look like he’s not the weird in-law pseudo-boyfriend attending a family party. Tucker seems torn between hating Locus’s guts and making eyebrow-waggling motions at him. Caboose and Donut are a nonstop talking generator. Lopez occasionally insults everyone in terrible Spanish, and then Locus has to cough into his napkin for a minute to cover his smirk. 

Simmons is always on Grif’s right side, like he’s daring Locus to tell him to move.

 

* * *

 

One morning, Simmons drops Locus’s favorite mug in the sink, where it shatters into pieces.

Simmons apologizes, of course. It’s just not very sincere.

“Is it just me,” Washington conversationally tells Locus that day, “or does Simmons seem to have a death wish lately?”

Locus, who is trying not to mourn his favorite brown-striped mug and also trying to remember something about having sworn off killing _even if that was his favorite mug_ , grits his teeth and says nothing.

 

* * *

 

“Please get your boyfriend under control,” Locus tells Grif. 

“Is this about the mug?” says Grif.

“Why is it that you deny you’re dating Private Simmons,” says Locus, “but when I say ‘your boyfriend,’ you immediately know who I’m referring to.”

“Yeah, but that’s only because everyone makes jokes about stuff like that!” says Grif. “Heck if _I_ know why.”

“Because you’re already dating,” says Locus.

“No, dude, I’d definitely know if we were.”

“You do _everything_ couples do,” says Locus, like he actually knows what happens in a relationship. “The only thing that hasn’t happened is sex.”

Grif makes a noise. Locus’s stare flicks to Grif.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Grif says defensively.

Oh, christ. What awful and terrible extreme length have they gone to in order to deny their sexual tension _this_ time.

“Like, I dunno why they’d ever even think so!” Grif says. “Like, it’s not like we only hang out with each other, we have _other_ friends, we just _like_ hanging out because it’s comfy, and because he gets me, and because I like making him laugh, which is always really easy because we make fun of everyone else all the time and they’re _always_ doing stupid shit! It’s not our fault that everything’s better when we’re together! So I don’t know where they’re going off and _assuming_ that I’ve had a giant crush on him for a million years, except that it’s true—but, y’know, besides that! There’s absolutely no reason, none at all, it’s not even like we had a fling like some guys do in the military, except that I guess we did but—”

“Say that again,” Locus says.

Grif mumbles.

Locus’s eyes narrow.

“I said,” Grif says louder, “that I never said we didn’t, um… consumerate.”

Locus stares.

“Conference?” Grif guesses. “Uhhhhhh, the big C word you said—”

“Consummate.”

“Yeah, that!”

Locus stares.

Grif is still mumbling: “Like, there was this Tower, called the Tower of Procreation, and when we were still on Chorus, Tucker did something stupid and it went off, and it was like this… alien sex-tower that made everyone super horny and do this mandatory sex-frenzy, and, uh, Simmons and I, uh…”

Locus stares.

“It was an accident! We were just in the vicinity! Like we were locked in a closet during the whole thing, so it’s not like we had a choice! ‘Cause I was in the motor pool and he was at the armory and those two things are like, only about half a mile apart? Which is really, really close considering the Chorus base! It only took us twenty minutes to find each other! Which isn’t that long, I think, objectively speaking, lots of things take twenty minutes, cooking macaroni takes twenty minutes, it’s very quick and not a lot of effort to find each other at all, everyone else was just coincidentally faster at finding a partner by nineteen minutes! It’s not like we took the time to go find each other or anything! And it’s not like we went into the closet ourselves, and then purposefully locked ourselves in or anything! Because that’d be like, _really_ sad for a guy with a shitty crush on his best friend to have done while drunk on alien sex orgy energy! Ha ha! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!”

Locus closes his eyes.

Grif’s voice says, “Yep, it doesn’t matter if we, uh, cosuter...mated…? It’s still not required. Requited!”

Locus takes a deep breath.

“So of course we never talked about it ever and just kinda let that elephant in the room hang out because, y’know, it’s not like it bothers me, not like I care, right, because I’m too cool and mavericky to do that sort of cheesy romance stuff like staying up all night thinking about why he doesn’t text back and also why he doesn’t bring up the fact that we basically confessed love to each other during a sweaty boning session.”

Locus bites his tongue and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“So that’s why I’m not Simmons’s boyfriend,” says Grif, with finality.

“You two are very bad at talking to each other,” says Locus. “Aren’t you.”

“I’m not taking this bullshit from the person who couldn’t even form a full sentence in Wash’s presence,” says Grif.

Locus crosses his arms.

 

* * *

 

Now Locus is pissed because Grif won’t clear up the misunderstanding with the Reds and Blues, and him being angry has nothing to do with Grif's statement on Agent Washington, because Locus has no feelings on that subject whatsoever, and therefore it is entirely logical that he says nothing to Grif for a full day. He’s so pissed he considers putting on his active camo just to avoid him. But he promised Washington he wouldn’t use it, so instead he just stands there with his big fuck-off muscles while Grif spins himself in circles.

It takes a full twenty-four hours for Grif to break: “Babe, c’mon, talk to me!” Grif hollers across the common room, in public view of Sarge, Donut, Carolina, Tucker, and Simmons himself.

 

* * *

 

And that’s how, after five days of deliberation, Grif _finally_ makes a public statement to the rest of the Reds and Blues that he and Locus are not dating, under threat that Locus will continue to not speak to him if he doesn’t. Very clearly, like he’s speaking to children, Grif puts his foot down at a team dinner and tells them in no uncertain terms that he and Locus are not dating.

“Oh, god, they’re practically in love,” Tucker says, looking like Grif just killed his dog in front of him. Carolina pats him on the back and glares holes into Locus’s head.

“What? No, I just said the _opposite_ of that,” Grif says.

“Suspiciously specific denial,” Donut whispers loudly to Lopez.

“We’re not dating!”

“If you’re in denial, does the MILF stay on the to-do list or not?” Kai complains.

“Jesus! I don’t get why you guys are all so obsessed with who I’m dating or not!” Grif cries. “Does it really matter? Who honestly _cares_ if I’m dating Locus or not?!”

Every eyeball in the whole room swings around to stare at Simmons.

“Uh,” says Grif. “...Simmons…?”

“Who, me?” says Simmons. “I don’t have a problem with it. Why would I have a problem with it. I don’t care. Doesn’t apply to me, nothing applies to me, not like I’m jealous or anything, why would I be jealous?”

“Uh,” says Grif.

“Not like I’m super terrified of this giant hulking murderer that you’re shacking up with but I simultaneously feel the need to stake some sort of claim even though I don’t have any claim to stake because I never made a move and NOTHING I’M NOT JEALOUS AND I DON’T CARE,” says Simmons, very loudly, and bolts up from his seat and flees the room.

Every eyeball in the whole room swings around to stare at Grif.

“...Huh,” says Grif. "That's odd?"

 

* * *

 

The next day, Simmons leaves Locus’s toothpaste uncapped in the communal bathroom.

That’s it, Locus decides.

This is _war._


	3. Murder Broadcast Live on Food Network

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look at that new leaf getting turned over as fuck,” Grif says.

On Thursday:

“Oh, heck, I think there was a mix-up with the chore wheel!” Donut says the next day.

Donut’s got the aforementioned chore wheel in hand. Dinner has already concluded, Caboose bounced away immediately and Tucker ran to clean up his inevitable mess, Sarge is trying to fix Lopez’s body on the dinner table, and Simmons is pretending that he doesn’t know exactly what Donut means by ‘a mix-up with the chore wheel.’ Locus continues to meditatively wash the plates he has been assigned.

“Look, Simmons,” Donut says, shoving it in Simmons’s face. “For some reason, Locus got signed up to do the dishes every single day of the week!”

“Hm! Wow! That’s really odd!” says Simmons, with a exaggerated surprise. “I don’t know how that happened! At all! Really quite a mystery to me that I know just _really_ nothing about!”

“Simmons, we _all_ know who’s in charge of the chore wheel,” says Donut. “Play nice! Locus might be a newbie and at the bottom of the totem pole, but bottoming _all_ the time just isn’t fun!”

Simmons opens his mouth to reply when Locus says, “It’s fine.”

“— _Bottoming_?” Donut asks in disbelief. “Wow, Locus, I had no idea—”

“Get your brain out of the gutter, Donut! He means being on the bottom of the totem pole!”

“Oh, Locus, no,” Donut moans. “This chore wheel says you’re supposed to wash the dishes like, every _day_ . Rubbing out your frustrations is great, but not _every_ day!”

Unfortunately for Donut, Locus’s personal specialty is liking the bad decisions other people make for him. Chorus can testify.

“It’s fine,” says Locus.

“Well, if you’re doing the dishes, do you want to step down from making Tuesday dinners?” Donut asks. “Seriously, making dinner for so many people takes a _lot_ of prep! Can never have too much prep, of course, but it’s _very_ time consuming. You have to be really into it.”

“No,” says Locus, and then adds, because it seems like the good houseguest thing to say: “I’m looking forward to it.”

The statement is foreign in itself. He hasn’t expressed a sentiment that wasn’t veiled in objectivity and philosophical lines of questioning in entire years—expressions of anger, uncomfortableness, sadness, desire are all the easiest targets for anyone looking to put a hole in anything he says. He’s always being too _critical_ . Too _nagging_ . Too _crazy_.

What’s even _more_ foreign is the way Donut brightens, positively radiant, and asks, “Have you cooked before?”

“Of course,” says Locus. What kind of grown man hasn’t cooked food for himself before? (...Probably Grif. And Tucker. And Caboose. And most people in this base, on second thought. This whole base is full of animals.) “I’m a guest in your home. I should do my part.”

Simmons mutters something under his breath about poisoning. Donut smacks him again. “Simmons! I’m sure Locus is a wonderful cook.”

“I don’t know about wonderful,” Locus says. “But I had some ideas.”

The plan is chicken breast lightly crusted with peppercorn and sourdough breading, marinated overnight in soy sauce, olive oil, lemon juice, garlic powder, basil, parsley, and pepper flakes. For those who don’t eat meat, there’s a coconut-eggplant curry served over jasmine rice and a small candle to keep the dish warm. On the side, there’s low-roasted vegetables in olive oil and sea salt, including eggplant, asparagus, carrots, and brussel sprouts. The whole thing is tied together with a Queen Maud’s pudding for dessert, with cream whipped by hand, brown sugar mixed into the cage-free eggs, and dusted with ninety-percent cacao chocolate.

“And of course, everything but the chicken is vegetarian, in consideration for Simmons,” says Locus.

“Aw, that’s so nice of you! Isn’t that nice of him, Simmons?” Donut says, nudging him.

Simmons seethes.

“Sound _much_ better than tonight’s bean burger nonsense,” Sarge grumbles.

“ _I_ did tonight’s bean burger nonsense,” Simmons says. “It’s vegan and healthy and—!”

“Did I stutter, Private?”

“Shush, Sarge, you make us eat MREs every Monday,” Donut says.

“I can change the dishes if they’re not to your taste, Captain Simmons,” says Locus blandly.

“They’re. _Fine_ ,” says Simmons.

“They sure are!” says Donut, obliviously. “Grif will get a kick out of the pudding, that’s for sure!”

Locus nods. “I’ll make enough for him to take thirds.”

“You sly dog!” Donut gasps. “You’re prepping that dish _knowing_ he loves chocolate! Look at you, being the considerate boyfriend!”

“I’m not his boyfriend,” says Locus.

Donut rolls his eyes. “Okay, sure, like I haven’t seen Simmons play _that_ game with Grif for the last ten years. Well! You might have killed like a _billion_ people, but you sure can make a nice dinner for your partner, so I guess it balances out!”

Simmons makes a noise like a cushion deflating. Grif, as if by magic, ambles through the door, already in pajama bottoms and Locus’s tiny shirt.

“Heyyy, Grif, we were _just_ talking about you!” says Donut, just before Donut’s unscarred eye narrows.  “Is that a new shirt? Looks a little… clean to be your usuals.”

“Oh yeah, it’s Locus’s,” says Grif.

Simmons’s cushion noise hits a new pitch.

Grif doesn’t seem to notice. He plops himself down at the kitchen table and shoves spare Lopez parts away to prop his feet up. “He said some mix-up with the dryer happened and now this shirt is too small for him? Anyway, it fits me just fine, so he gave it to me.”

Simmons’s entire body goes rigid.

“Or I guess I’m wearing his shirt?” says Grif.

Simmons squeaks.

“Whichever,” says Grif, oblivious. “Locus, do you want this back?”

“If you like it, you may keep it,” Locus says.

“Awesome! It’s _super_ soft, Simmons, come feel it—it’s got a nice smell, too—Simmons? Simmons, where’re you going?”

Simmons is practically running for the door, one hand over his mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

If there's two things Locus ever learned from Felix, it was this:

One: Combatting pettiness with more pettiness never solves anything. Felix can always escalate higher.  _Simmons_ can always escalate higher. Winning is to escape their game altogether--to model better behavior and put a stop to their own. 

Two: Locus is still a weak person.

He is still touchy. He is still sensitive. He still hates making any call, hates being a leader, hates going first, hates making the hard decisions out on the field. Hates the field. Hates being a person operating on the field. He is also still too weak to do or be anything else. Being a human being is difficult, every single day.

Humans, as Locus has defined “human,” are naturally not strong enough for some missions. Sometimes, to do what must be done, you must become something else entirely.

A soldier.

A suit of armor.

A murderer.

A traitor.

A monster.

To do what is necessary—particularly in the case of war—you must become unrecognizable. Impossible. Disfigured beyond recognition. Leaving humanity behind to push yourself beyond the natural human capacity.

Today, Locus is becoming the perfect houseguest.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Run, Simmons. Run, as if you could hide. But there will be nothing left of you and your arrogance when Locus’s aggressively good manners are done with you.

 

* * *

 

 

On Friday:

“Locus is joining us for wine and cheese hour!” Donut says cheerfully, dragging Locus in through the door.

This is an unfortunately new event for all them. Locus’s brief stay at the Reds and Blues’ have consisted mostly of Locus avoiding everyone at all hours, except Grif. Simmons’s entire face scrunches up. Grif has a mouthful of cheese and still smiles with teeth anyway. Sarge is sipping a wine glass full of vodka. Lopez’s head is propping up the cheese tray.

“But he’s not on Red Team,” Simmons complains.

“But we’re _friends_ now!” Donut says cheerfully. “After that full-frontal show of how much he obviously _adores_ Grif, we’re practically family!”

Sarge grumbles something about having to change the Christmas card. “Honestly, Sarge,” says Donut, “it’s just _one_ picture. We can put Locus front and center! It’ll be fun!”

“Do not,” says Locus.

“No, it’ll be fine, we’ll just blur you out when we send it to Kimball!”

“Do not,” says Locus again.

“She won’t notice a thing!”

“He doesn’t even want to be here!” Simmons protests.

“Nonsense, Simmons, everyone wants to be here.”

“ _I_ don’t,” mutters Simmons, like a petulant child. “Nobody here likes parties but you.”

Donut’s smile falters for a second.

Locus steels himself from his very core, and detaches his soul to the place where he used to go when he tried to shut out the blood and murder of his own crimes. Takes a deep breath. He’s got to do it. He’s got to be a good houseguest.

“I. Love parties,” Locus says, without expression.

Donut lights back up. Simmons gives Locus a look so poisonous that Locus almost gives a damn.

“A new party member!” Sarge declares. “Ohohohoho! You know what that means!”

Donut freezes.

“ANOTHER ROUND OF MY BELOVED SHOTGUN SERMON,” Sarge hollers. “LOCUS. HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT HOW GREAT MY SHOTGUN IS.”

Locus, slowly, bids what little of his soul he has left goodbye. Lets it detach from his body, to float away to the astral plane. Simmons shakes his head vigorously, as if he knows what Locus is about to do. Locus ignores him. He's not going to win the war against Simmons by being petty himself, he reminds himself. He has to do this. He must.

"No," he says, dully. "Please tell me about your shotgun."

 

* * *

 

 

“...and that’s why I’ll never trust an orca again,” says Sarge, four hours later.

“Fascinating,” says Locus, without expression. 

Sarge frowns, and dumps more vodka in his wine glass. Red Team excavated the room after the first thirty minutes of his talking. Even Donut had to escape his own party.

“You gonna stop my ramblin’ yet?” Sarge asks suspiciously.

“Your shotgun clearly means a lot to you,” says Locus evenly. “You describe the relationship in vivid detail. A man can understand such an attachment in unsure and difficult times.”

Sarge hiccups. Squints. Hiccups again. Wipes away something that looks suspiciously like a tear, but in a very manly way, of course.

Locus hands him a tissue.

 

* * *

 

 

Sarge bangs on Simmons’s room at one in the morning and yodels, “ALL I NEED IS LOCUS AND MY SHOTGUN AN’ MYSELF AN’ ALSO CABOOSE! LOCUS UNDERSTANDS! Y’ALL CAN JOIN BLUE TEAM IF YOU LOVE THOSE DIRTY BLUES SO MUCH! THE NERVE OF Y'ALL! LEAVING MY SHOTGUN SPEECH IN THE MIDDLE OF IT! I’M ELOPING WITH MY NEW RED TEAM AND YOU CAN’T STOP ME!”

Locus hands Sarge a glass of water before leading him away to sleep it off.

 

* * *

 

 

On Saturday:

“Please kill me,” Sarge wails, clutching a bottle of Tylenol with one hand.

Simmons pokes his head into the kitchen and sees Locus, wearing Donut’s frilly pink apron, cracking open three eggs on a frying pan.

“And make those easy over,” says Sarge.

Locus hands him a jar of pickle juice.

“Sarge?” Simmons says. “There was a, uh, kind of a racket last night, so…”

“I’m fine,” Sarge grumbles. “Incredibly fine! Everything is great! My military career is booming at my grand old age of _sixty-one_ and I’m just _wonderful_ . I’ve got my _team_ to help me. This _nice young man_ is frying me some eggs like a wonderful Red who knows where his loyalty is and doesn’t abandon his leader’s shotgun sermon after _thirty tiny minutes_.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Simmons says. “That _nice young man_ is, first of all, old as hell—”

Locus looks at Simmons.

“Ohgodpleasedon’tkillme,” Simmons says.

“Shut it, Simmons! He’s just fine. Even if he _is_ dating Grif."

“HE MURDERED PEOPLE,” says Simmons.

Then Simmons looks promptly at Locus for his response, as if Locus had, somehow, missed the fact that he had murdered people. “Would you like to take over nursing Sarge’s hangover,” says Locus politely.

“Don’t even bother to ask him!” Sarge cries. “What could these errant sons do for me?!”

“I’m not _errant_ ,” Simmons says hotly, and then: “Wait, did you just call me your—”

“LET ME BE HUNGOVER WITHOUT EMOTIONS, SIMMONS.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” says Locus, and shoos Simmons towards the door.

 

* * *

 

 

On Sunday:

Dinner prep starts at 5PM. Sunday is Simmons’s turn to make dinner. Locus plays Sudoku in the kitchen while Grif looks over his shoulder and gives him the wrong answers, just so that Locus will stop listening to him when Grif starts giving him the right ones. Grif is _immensely_ pleased with himself and giggles at his own prank like a child. Locus wonders what makes this so different from Felix’s tricks, and why they don’t hurt.

At 5:01, Locus stands up and declares that Simmons is late, and that someone must prepare dinner in his stead lest the entire base fall to complete chaos.

“Dude, what?” says Grif. “It’s like one minute past. Give it—”

“No,” says Locus. “This base is on the verge of anarchy. Order will collapse if dinner is not prepared.”

“Just because you were in the kitchen before him—”

“Campingisalegitimatestrategy,” says Locus quickly.

“What?” says Grif.

Locus pulls a pan of freshly-baked bread from the oven and slides it in front of Grif.

“I feel like I’m being bribed for my silence about you stealing Simmons’s dinner day,” says Grif.

“Is it working,” says Locus.

Grif slips a knife into the bread crust and warm, delicious steam rises into the air. “Oh-ho-ho, it sure the fuck is, my dude!” And just as Simmons walks into the kitchen, Grif gives Locus a huge, sappy, goofy smile, and says, "Thanks, you're the  _best_."

"Not a problem," says Locus.

Simmons broadcasts hate like a radio signal. 

Locus wonders, idly, under the rays of Simmons's murderous intent, how long it'll take for Simmons to snap.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Locus is done cooking, everyone is pleased to not be eating Simmons’s weird vegan burgers. When Locus pulls out a tray of cookies, even Carolina’s tightly pursed lips unseal themselves a fraction. “Uuughghghhgh I _hate_ that he can cook and looks good in an apron,” Tucker groans. He’s pulling apart a chocolate chip cookie and watching the chocolate melt with a combination of fury and resignation. “Stop fucking _doing_ this, man! I wanna hate you for homewrecking!”

“Truly shocking that someone who would deign to date Grif would actually have valuable life skills,” says Sarge.

“Okay, first of all, my brother deserves all the hot guys with huge dicks who can cook,” Kai says, as if Locus isn’t sitting right there, listening to Kai speculate as to the size of his dick. “Second of all: Grif, _please, please_ share him, I will _die_ of lady-blueballs and it’ll be like, the worst thing Locus has ever done.”

“Excuse me? He _tried to kill us_ ,” Simmons says.

“Okay, but like?” says Donut. “These cookies are _really_ good?”

“Also Locus being a hideous freak of nature without morals was already clear from his willingness to date Grif,” adds Sarge.

Washington takes a long, long drink of water. Tucker bites into his cookie and makes an orgasmic noise.

"I'm still going to beat you up in a parking lot," Carolina warns, and takes another cookie.

 

* * *

 

 

On Monday:

“Please stop talking with Lopez in Spanish,” Grif complains.

Locus doesn’t even look up from his book. “What did Simmons say this time,” says Locus.

Grif starts. “Oh, dude, how’d you know it was bothering Simmons?”

Locus immediately flashes back to every single conversation he's ever had with Grif, which has had a hundred-percent success rate of involving Simmons in some way.

“Just spit it out,” Locus says.

Simmons had overheard Locus and Lopez discussing Lopez’s maintenance repairs, because the quicker Lopez was repaired, the quicker Locus’s ship was repaired, and the quicker Locus could escape Planet Malarkey, and frankly it was easier getting answers out of Lopez than it was Sarge. “And Simmons gets _suuuuper_ paranoid that people are always talking shit about him because he’s delicate like that, so Simmons was all like, ‘Hey Grif, what are they saying?’ and I was like oh dude I don’t know, why’re you asking me? And Simmons was like ‘Grif nobody’s falling for that anymore we all know you speak Spanish’ and I was like ok ok fine, Locus and Lopez are talking about the ship repairs and are definitely not talking about you, and then he got pissed and was like ‘okay don’t tell me!’ and Locuuuuuuuus,” Grif whines, “I don’t know what I did wrong!”

Locus flips a page from his book. “You did nothing wrong,” he says. “Your boyfriend is just stupid.”

Grif crosses his arms. “Well, _you’re_ apparently my boyfriend now,” says Grif.

Locus thinks about this, then shrugs. It’s still a true statement.

 

* * *

 

 

On Tuesday, Locus avoids eye contact with everyone. The effort of interacting with human beings for a whole week straight has left him feeling entirely naked. He nearly jumps out of his skin when Sarge, humming some old action movie tune, begins setting the table while Locus cooks.

“I can do it,” Locus says.

“The faster the plates are down, the fast we can eat,” Sarge replies. “‘Sides, you ain’t so bad—even if you’re doing evil, heinous crimes against humanity like dating Grif.”

"I'm not dating Grif," says Locus.

"You poor son of a bitch," says Sarge mournfully, shaking his head. "You're already in so deep."

Locus looks off into the distance and reflects on how life was so much easier when he could respond to people's stupidity with shooting them.

Reds and Blues filter into the dining room in ones and twos, most of them relaxed, some laughing. But as Locus brings out the baked chicken, Simmons sidles right up to him. Insecurity and anger in his entire expression all at once, warring for space. 

Ah, yes. What a pity for Simmons, to see someone who is cooler and handsomer and taller and basically better in every way than him, take up the space at Grif's side as The Boyfriend. What a total shame, and Locus totally feels really bad about that. 

"I don't know  _what_ you're doing," Simmons hisses. "But I'm on to you."

Grif, overhearing from the dinner table, cranes his neck to glare at Simmons. “Dude, lay off. Let him serve the fucking chicken,” says Grif.

“Yeah, man,” says Tucker. “Like, yes, we know, Locus is evil and eats babies at night, but also chill, that shit is getting old, y’know?”

Simmons doesn't move. "I haven't forgotten what you pulled on Chorus. You tried to kill us. You ruined a planet. You're not fooling anyone. You're _not_ a good person."

“Correct,” says Locus.

His voice is so quiet that most of the scattered dinner conversation stops. Screeches to a halt entirely, actually. People stop  _moving_ with the force of the silence. Even Caboose blinks owlishly at him, waiting for the rest of his sentence.

Locus winces internally. He shouldn’t have said that—he intended to be polite and cordial to people instead of lurking in the shadows and avoiding everyone, but willingly volunteering parts of himself? Being put in the spotlight? Every cell of his stealth-trained body shrieks. Entire years of pretending he didn't even _have_ emotions shrieks louder. He doesn’t know what the right thing to do is, the right thing to say.

He looks at Grif, who shrugs, as if to say _I dunno, dude, fuck it_.

So Locus just says what's honest:

“You are right to not forget it,” says Locus. “You are right to not forgive me. You should remember my crimes well, Captain Simmons. Hold my actions to the highest standards, and I will not let them down.”

And then he walks past Simmons, puts the platter of chicken on the table, and crosses his arms.

“Look at that new leaf getting turned over as _fuck_ ,” Grif says.

“I hate that I’m mildly horny for this,” says Tucker.

“Horny for _redemption arc,_ bitches,” Kai whispers.

Locus says, “Excuse me,” and takes off his apron and vacates the dinner table. He feels cut open, raw and exposed. He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn't have said anything honest, and he doesn't know why he did, and he can't shake the feeling that someone, right now, is about to take every honest fact he's admitted about himself and twist them into the noose around his neck, sneering and mocking and derisive like knives.  _Hysterical. Nagging. Crazy. Broken fucking brain._

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Grif’s voice says behind him. “He’s actually weirdly shy.”

 

* * *

 

 

That night, Grif finds Locus hiding outside on the beach. Grif has a wide smile on his face. Locus squints at him until he says, happily: “Dude, you’re finally making friends! This is awesome! You can come to movie nights, you can come to beach parties—are you a trunks kind of guy for beachwear? Or do you have like, some Victorian-era full-body swimsuit that I don’t know about—”

“What,” says Locus.

“Seriously, do you actually have a bodysuit? It’ll be a little weird but also Tucker wore a banana hammock once so—”

I'm not  _making friends_ ," says Locus, like the idea is offensive to him. "What on earth ever gave you that impression?"

"Uhhhh, you're talking to people? And coming to dinners without me having to drag you out of your room? And you like, almost did a smile with your eyes once?"

Locus frowns. Grif is undeterred.

"Isn't that what you've been doing?" says Grif.

"Absolutely not," says Locus. "I've been _polite_." He sniffs. "Stooping to Captain Simmons's level would be ridiculous. The only way to combat bad behaviors is to model better ones." Which,  _hopefully_ , might inspire Simmons to be less of a twink-shaped toolbag, and finally start making a relationship with Grif happen. Locus grimaces. "I don't make friends," says Locus. "I've been polite."

Grif starts snickering at him. "Dude? What? Being polite is usually the first step to making friends. Who told you that you don't make friends?"

Locus says nothing. Mentioning Felix almost always ends a conversation, and not in a good way.

"You're friendsing the fuck up in there," says Grif. "Simmons's brown-nosing ass is _so_ mad, and also Wash is about to wipe the floor with him in Mario Kart. Come on, I wanna go watch."

"I'm not friends with you," says Locus insistently. That's ridiculous, and disingenuous of him. Dishonest of him.

"Okay, whatever," says Grif. "Seriously, come back inside, and also for real tell me if we need to get you a swimsuit, I'm pretty sure all of mine are too small for you."

Locus looks at him flatly. "I don't use a swimsuit. I sunbathe on the beach with full power armor and a sunhat."

Grif laughs. "Haha, dude, nice one, hilarious. Wait—" and Locus walks right past him. "Wait, no, Locus, you don't really, right? Locus? Locus, oh my god, tell me you're joking, I can't tell when you say everything in the murder voice. Locus!"

 


End file.
